


Dear William

by aus_der_traum



Category: Historical RPF, World War II - Fandom
Genre: Beating, Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, M/M, Malmedy Trial, PoW, Rape, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:31:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: Letter from Joachim Peiper to former colleague William Jones from September 30, 1973.





	Dear William

Dear William,

Thank you for the photos, they really brightened my day.

As for your question about the events at Malmedy and whether I had been abused in a similar manner as you have have heard from other prisoners’ testimonies. You have asked me before and I had previously construed the question as simple curiosity in a matter of some public debate, but I’ve now come to understand that you have asked out of genuine concern for my wellbeing. I have decided to tell you the truth as you’ve been a good friend. I don’t want to lie to you and don’t like being evasive. I trust that you will keep the matter entirely to yourself as I have no intentions of bringing my experience to public attention.

Rest assured that none of the things that were inflicted on me could compare to the horrors I have witnessed on the Eastern front. I have seen with my own eyes the disgusting things the Russians will do to surrendered soldiers of the Schutzstaffel. We found corpses of German soldiers which were used for target practice, violated with knives, gutted like pigs or burned alive. You have seen yourself what happened to the German girls who were unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the Red Army. Many Americans had no manners but they also had no malice.

Generally the behaviour towards me from the investigators, especially Mr. Ellis and even the Jewish prosecutors, was fair. They did not beat me during interrogations or ever threatened to do so. Their swords were purely verbal. They tried to undermine my character with trickery and lies. Some of these performances were at the expense of my subordinates who had to serve as actors in their plays. They were made to accuse me, beg me to lie or were simply displayed to me so I could see how low they had sunken at the hands of their torturers.

There was one incident of assault however, which I will describe to you in as much detail as I can recall. I will leave it to you to decide if you want to proceed reading. Read it all or none of it, it makes no difference to me.

One day in early January my prison cell was opened and four guards entered. This was at a time when I had been moved to a more remote but also more comfortable hospital cell. Usually one person would suffice to transport a prisoner to their interrogation cell. Another one might also come along to pick up a second prisoner, who would then be interrogated in the same or a nearby room. They did however carry with them at least one of the black hoods we were always made to wear on our way to the interrogation rooms. So I assumed this would be another one of those madhouse interrogation where I would now be made to see even more of my former comrades. But I quickly learned the guards had other plans. I say plans because whether the things they did to me were by order or by their own volition I can not tell, but they enjoyment they took in their actions suggested to me it was the latter.

I should mention that I had seen these guards before and they had always acted very harshly towards me, kicking me as I crossed the prison courtyard on the way to the interrogation room, shoving me up and down stairs and making liberal use of their batons. I believed them to be Slavic, maybe Polish from their looks and their accented German.

I followed the usual procedure of standing with my face to the wall and my hands behind my back in case they wanted to restrain me as the weaker guards sometimes did. I heard them walk into the cell and close the door behind them. One of them fastened the hood over my head. It reeked of blood. I can confirm this much from the other inmate’s accusations. He then removed the belt from his pants and tied it around my wrists, which you can imagine was absolutely not standard procedure.

Having restrained me in such a manner, he grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me on the cell floor. I managed to turn on my side so that at least my face didn’t make contact with the concrete. They insulted me in broken German. They called me a “disgusting pig”, a “dirty dog” and “degenerate queer.” The irony made me chuckle which enraged them more. One of them with a nasal voice, I believe he must have been the ringleader, said they would teach me humility. I refrained from telling them how any barbaric behaviour would have the opposite effect on me.

Nonetheless they weren’t satisfied with just verbal abuse. While taunting me further for not dying a warrior’s death, having been captured, not having followed my Führer, being at the mercy of them and the Americans and so forth they also started to kick me. First hesitantly as if they were testing the thickness of my skin, but soon hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs. Being restrained, blinded, surrounded and in increasingly more pain I had no way of protecting myself.

One kicked me in the stomach with enough force to make me throw up. They proceeded to kick and pummel me. Lying on my back I was unable to rid myself of the spit in my throat. The matter was worsened by the wet hood clinging to my face. I choked on my own vomit, wheezed for air and struggled to remain conscious. After excruciatingly long seconds I found myself turned on my belly and the hood pulled off my head. I could clean my throat and breathe again. I was panting for breath, dazed and disoriented. Although my body would later turn red and blue and black I felt no more pain, just a numb warmth swelling under my skin.

With the hood removed I could now get a better look at the men staring down on me. In their expressions there was no reason, hate or anger, just pure delight in the destruction of others. I can always tell a sadist by that glimmer in his eyes, the redness of his cheeks, the shortness of breath. I realised the gravity of my situation.

Two of them pulled me up by the arms into a kneeling position. The one with the nasal voice grabbed me by the hair and shoved my face into his crotch. He said something along the lines of  “I’ll make you choke on something good” which elicited some dirty laughter from the other men. He asked me whether I was going to be a “good Nazi boy”. As I didn’t reply he slapped me across the face and asked again. This was repeated several times, but a slap wouldn’t make me budge.

I told him quite calmly that I was not afraid. This was partially true. At this point I considered myself a dead man walking, with a noose around my neck. My only concern was preserving my honour, that is to endure to my end with the dignity becoming of a Prussian officer. You will not be able to understand this but in a way the struggle was thrilling to me. The memory of the battlefield still lingered with me; a wild hunt through the night, the low humming of bombers overhead, a firework of muzzle flashes and screams. I’m not made for a comfortable life. The boredom was eating at my core.

The ringleader called me an “arrogant cocksucker” and said something to the others in Polish. To me he said: “Don’t try anything funny”. Despite centuries of Prussian occupation the Poles evidently had very little understanding of German dignity. One of the others, the heavy one who had previously tied my hands, undid his belt and freed my hands. He grabbed my tunic, trying clumsily to get it off my body. I took the matter into my own hands. I only had the clothing I wore on my body and did not intend to get any of their filth on it. Watching me put the clothing carefully under my bed seemed to amuse them. They burst into laughter and called me “kurwa”, whore.

I had to strip naked. They grabbed me by the arms, one man each, and pushed me face first on the bed. They spread my arms, each man pressing down on it with his body weight, so that I was bend over the bed and barely able to move. The heavy one stepped forward and hit me across the back with his belt.

Flogging is a matter entirely different from beating. There is only so many kicks or punches a body can take before it breaks irreparably, but you can whip a man for hours and only break his soul. It’s a completely different pain too. You will not grow numb, you won’t get used to it. Every hit cuts like a blade and rends you deep inside. The pain doesn’t fade, every hit with the belt just pushed the blade deeper into me. I counted to 40 hits when my brain stopped functioning. Everything turned white. I’m counting confirmed kills, prisoners, horses, gallons, miles. I’m being carried by now dead comrades, my back is dotted with shrapnel. I lie in the charred remains of my Tiger tank, my back is covered in burning oil. The blade has cut every nerve in my body. My thoughts turn red and then only black.

The next thing I remember is lying curled up on the bed, my back warm with blood. I was too weak to raise my body off the mattress. Still the flogging wasn’t enough to satisfy them. They took turns sodomising me. It was less painful than the belt. They became angry at my lack of anguish and tried find ways to humiliate me. One of them rubbed his filth in the wounds on my back. Another pushed it down my throat. They choked me with the belt. I thought of my brother Hasso who had come to me to cry his eyes out when something similar but less damaging had happened to him. I liked him, but he was too weak. I didn’t cry.

Once they had gotten their sexual satisfaction, the guards left me. I don’t think anyone was aware of what they had done to me. The doctors didn’t work at that time of the day. Four hours later a nurse returned to duty. She patched me up and didn’t ask questions.

My dear Sigurd knows of course and now do you. I expect neither pity nor sympathies.

I would like to talk to you about more joyful matters like the wonderful weather or the start of the hunting season but I have run out of paper. You know I try to avoid going to the shops, we are always short on the necessities here.

Looking forward to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Jochen

_

**Author's Note:**

> For more nazi fic curated by the Baldur von Schirach Society for Poetic Souls (BvSSfPS) go to [aus-der-traum.tumblr.com](https://aus-der-traum.tumblr.com)


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